


maybe i'm the monstAAAAH

by blobfish_miffy



Series: paul is pretty (bratty) [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Paul is a brat, Sharing a Room, Short One Shot, a short mess but a mess nevertheless, and it gets worse, bc same john, but not constantly, but part 2, dramatic language, george is beautiful, georgeous if you will, happy birthday sir paul!!, i seriously cannot blame him, i'm not that smart, john still wants to fuck his bandmates, lots of alliteration, ringo is exhausted, the saga continues, this is a mess, this is count dracula is quaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: Happy Birthday to Sir Paul McCartney! I hope that he'll continue to be in good health for the rest of eternity, that he'll have an absolutely splendid day, and I also hope that he'll never read this. Seriously.***This scene was, of course, a normal Beatle scene, but scaled down, as they were currently stuck in a tiny room filled with bunk beds.Of course.And, of course, in this tiny, crowded room, George found it an excellent idea to set in motion his equally as excellent, if not more, Pester Paul Plan.***Paul continues to be a brat, Ringo still doesn't get it, John still doesn't get it either, and George is no longer a burrito, but a Bitch instead.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr
Series: paul is pretty (bratty) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792075
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	maybe i'm the monstAAAAH

**Author's Note:**

> It is 00:25 on the 18th of June as I write this. It is officially Paul's birthday. I'd been waiting pathetically for the clock to strike twelve so I could post this on his actual birthday before I'd crawl into my bed. Will I regret posting this now? Probably. Will it get buried by other birthday celebrations? Most likely. Do I care? Probably later today but sure as fuck not now. 
> 
> This fic has been beta'ed by the wonderful [EmSheshan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/pseuds/EmSheshan) and [Kathleenishereagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathleenishereagain/pseuds/Kathleenishereagain). Thank you two so much, you're both darlings <3   
> Check out their fics, they're both amazing, unbelievably talented writers!

Their next hotel had had a chance to truly woo the lads. 

It’d had the possibility of _not_ acting like their last. This hotel could have had it all, it could have rolled in the deep, and the chances of fucking up had been spectacularly small. 

If only the hotel had gotten the memo. 

Bunk beds, is what they had offered. _Bunk beds._ Out of all the rooms the bloody place could have made available, they’d presented them with a tiny room that had _bunk beds._

No matter how much Eppy had whined and wailed and squabbled and quibbled in the lobby, the hotel had been stubborn in offering them that room or none at all. _“We’re full,”_ the receptionist had responded, _“Our sincerest apologies. At least they’ll have beds to sleep in.”_

And as such, with a defeated look in his eyes, Eppy had accepted the keys to the lads’ room and the roadies’ and his rooms and led them to their floor.

The room had obviously been for couples in the years before: the entire layout could not have been larger than 18 square metres, with a baby-sized bathroom, one small sofa, and two wonkily placed bunk beds. There was barely enough space for their godforsaken suitcases in the _miniscule_ space, not even adding the presence of _four rowdy Northern lads._ And worst of all, they couldn’t even make their own tea. 

Nevertheless, the unwelcome presence of said bed-bugs-bunks did not seem to get their morale down. On the contrary, it appeared to actually incite some kind of odd enthusiasm. Eppy was neither surprised nor disappointed when both John and George yelled out _“DIBS ON THE TOP”_ the moment they had gotten over their initial shock of _bunk beds_ and Ringo and Paul resigned themselves to the lower beds with a sigh; a little less aggrieved and a little more appeased by the whole situation and his disappointing deprivation of securing a superior suite for his boys, he bid the lads goodnight with a fond nod before turning on his heels to leave. He even found that he had a slight spring in his step, but he suspected that could be attributed to his possession of a single suite with a normal bed. God bless. 

It is in this tiny room where we set our Beatle-scene. Our former burrito, George, was relaxing on his own top bunk, head hanging off the edge and mouth blowing smoke rings at the ceiling; John was in the Paramount Process of Stripping Off his Suit on the little ladder to _his_ top bunk, currently loosening his tie; Ringo had dramatically thrown his body on the tiny sofa and was now snoring softly; and Pretty Paulie was fussing with his suitcase and complaining under his breath. This scene was, of course, a normal Beatle scene, but scaled down, as they were currently stuck in a tiny room filled with bunk beds. 

Of course. 

And, of course, in this tiny, crowded room, George found it an excellent idea to set in motion his equally as excellent, if not more, Pester Paul Plan. 

_“_ JOHNNY,” he said loudly, a whine to his voice, “I won’t be able to sleep tonight, y’know?”

“Oh?” John was now flat on his back, trying to shimmy out of his slacks with a concentrated frown. “Why’s tha’ then, son?”

George rolled onto his stomach, absentmindedly tapping the ash off his ciggie; it elegantly floated down, nestling comfortably in the dark hairs of the moptop beneath Geo’s hand. “Well, _y’know,”_ he drawled drawlingly, drawling in his well-known drawl, “there’s an incredibly ugly monster under me bed.”

John wheezed mid-shimmy, Ringo snorted in his sleep, and Paul shot up from his suitcase. 

_“YER A BLOODY PEST!”_ he screeched right in Geo’s unimpressed face, cheek narrowly avoiding the burning end of the cigarette. “I fockin’ _hate_ ye!”

George raised his eyebrows as he sucked on his fag, slowly and sensually blowing the smoke in Paul’s fuming face. With a wink and a kissy-noise, he started grinning dangerously. “Thanks, luv.”

Paul ducked back into his opened suitcase, rummaging for his pyjamas. “Yer doin’ this _on purpose,”_ he muttered nasally, making wild grabs in the depths. “An’ I know I bloody well don’t deserve it. Yer just a fockin’ _pest,_ Haz-”

“Well,” George sighed dramatically, fanning his face with his free hand, “at least ‘m _hot,_ y’know.”

Paul made an odd, strangled sound. 

“And I’d fuck ye,” John added, grinning triumphantly at his bare legs and kicking his slacks at Ringo. The drummer didn’t even splutter at the face full of fabric, having slept through the entirety pf the conversation between the Pretty Ones. “Paulie, luv, give us our jammies…?”

“Still one of the best compliments I’ve ever received,” the youngest Beatle mused. He took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the exposed bolt of the metal frame, and chucked it at the ashtray on the side table. The butt, by some kind of miracle, actually fell in. “The great _John Lennon_ admitting he’d put his cock in me - _if I were a bird,_ then. Ain’t that somethin’?”

“‘s not like ‘is dick is _picky,_ y’know,” Paul said sourly, and he seized John’s pyjamas from the lad’s suitcase before handing them to him with a scowl. “Sticks it in almost erryone, ‘e does-”

“Are ye saying I’m a _slut?”_ John sneered sneeringly, snatching his pyjamas from Paul. At his best mate’s feverish nodding, he pursed his lips and attempted to kick his shoulder. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Paul huffed heatedly. He turned around sharply and continued to dig for his pyjamas. _“Fuck me!”_

_“Fuck Paul!”_ echoed George, still precariously leaning over the side of the bed.

_“Zzz,”_ snoozed Ringo, still buried beneath John’s slacks. 

“Yer all _bullyin’ me,”_ Paul pouted, “I’m bein’ _bullied_ ‘cause you all think I’m _ugly_ and I _can’t find my **bloody** pyjamas-”_

“It’s not bullying,” with a sigh loud enough to make Ringo stir, George rolled onto his back. “Just teasin’. I’m _teasing_ ye, ‘cos you’re a brat.”

Paul paused mid-digging. “Is tha’ _true?”_

When there was no answer, he stood up to full height so quickly he almost hit his head against the top bunk. _“Lads?_ Do you three agree?”

If the expression on John’s face did not provide him with enough of an answer, John’s actual words did. _“Yes,”_ he said bluntly, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. His pyjamas, just a black, oversized t-shirt were draped over his right knee. “Bit self-centered, too, with yer fastidious focus on yer extraordinary elegance.”

“John Winston Lennon everybody,” said the bitch on the top bunk. “The talking Thesaurus.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever tickles yer fancy, love.”

“I am _not”_ Paul pressed, “a self-centered _brat_ who only cares ‘bout ‘is _looks. Furthermore,_ I’m _way_ more ‘andsome than _George.”_

John grimaced, squinting at his best mate. “Are you?”

For one frighteningly long moment Paul stared him down with widened, displeased doe-eyes, before his face contorted in a nasty scowl. He turned to the snoozing, slacks-covered Ringo on the little sofa, and stomped towards him. 

“Ritchie!” Paul grabbed the lad’s leg, and _yanked. “Ritchie!_ Wake up!”

As to be expected, Ringo tumbled off the sofa with grace, landing right on his tailbone. He woke up with a start, with a snore, and with a _“fuck”;_ all quite justifiable reactions to being rudely awoken by a baby-faced brat being challenged to doubt the dazzling delicacy of his mug.

_“What?”_ Ringo groaned, groggy and aggravated. That was all there was to it, really, seeing as Ringo did not want to be woken up. He had been snoozing just fine underneath John’s slacks. 

Paul put his face all up in Ringo’s aura. “D’ye think I’m beautiful?”

Ringo blinked. 

Rubbed the sleep from his eyes. 

Blinked again.

“Georgie is prettier,” he then said, as if he knew that would set off the natural disaster that was a maddened McCartney and as if that pleased him so. _Revenge,_ one would reckon, for being dragged off his resting place, and for the bruised bum. 

Paul staggered back, fingers locked in his dark moptop, and shook his head in disbelief.

“I’ve been betrayed,” he whispered, unwilling to acknowledge, to _believe_ that Richard Starkey, his mate, his drummer, his back-bone-beat-buddy would say such a horrid thing. “I’ve been… I’ve been _given_ a _Judas kiss-”_

“Oh! Biblical references! Love it.”

“Ritchie,” Paul whispered, sounding near tears, “what have you _done?”_

And with those last words, Paul grabbed a t-shirt from his suitcase and strutted towards the tiny bathroom.

The door was slammed shut hard enough for it to rattle in its frame.

_“Jesus,”_ Ringo said softly. 

_“Christ,”_ George added helpfully.

“Biblical reference,” John muttered. “Love it.”

The room fell into a hairy hush, John finally tugging on his pyjama shirt. Ringo and George, then, also got the ingenious idea to change into their pyjamas, with George carefully climbing down to be able to reach his travel bag and Ringo ridding himself of his slacks and jacket in one go. None of them spoke, the abrupt departure of their beautiful bassist paired with an unwanted need to stew over what had just occurred. George in particular was feeling rather guilty about it all, not having meant to make pretty Paulie _that_ upset with his teasing. 

By the time Harrison had put on the joggers he was planning on sleeping in, John had crept under the covers with a book, and Ringo was smoking his last cigarette of the night in his favourite pair of pyjamas, the bassist emerged from the bathroom dressed in only a black t-shirt. It was almost identical to John’s sleepwear, except this was not Paul’s preferred pick of pyjamas, for he much rather slept in cotton pyjamas when sharing a room with his mates. 

And Paul, for a lack of better word, looked _smad_. Striding determinedly towards his bed, he dropped his folded suit in his suitcase on his way there, yanked the sheets back when he arrived, and crawled underneath. He’d gone from Beatles-Bassist to Macca-Mound in a matter of seconds, and both his silence and him having turned his back on his mates suggested he did not want to discuss the matter at all. 

Pity, then, that the other three did. 

_“Paauulie,”_ George said softly, carefully sinking through his knees and staring at the little tuft of black hair peeking out from under the blanket. “Love?”

There was no answer.

“Paulie, baby, c’mon,” the next to try was John, who had put his book aside and quickly descended the little ladder. He positioned himself next to George, and he poked Paul teasingly. “There’s no way you’ve fallen asleep already.”

_“Paaauuuulie,”_ Ringo went from behind them, “c’mon mate, what’s wrong?”

_“You lot know what’s bloody wrong.”_

John gasped in a grand manner, holding onto George’s shoulder for support. “It’s alive! A miracle!” 

“Shut it John,” Paul snuck a peek at his mates from under the sheets, eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “I’m just annoyed, tha’s all.”

“I know,” George said quietly. He seemed genuinely remorseful for upsetting him. “And I’m sorry…”

Paul’s glare softened. “Thank you-”

“No, no, wait, that’s not enough,” George raised his hand when Paul opened his mouth to protest. “Listen to me. I’m sorry for teasing ye, and I’m sorry for making ye upset. I shouldn’t ‘ave done that.”

Paul sat up slowly. His smile was growing smug and satisfied again, and he seemed ready to give George a hug. “Georgie-”

Oh, how Paul would come to deplore this premature decision of his in the near future.

“But what I’m most sorry for, what I’m truly, _genuinely_ sorry for…” a wide, dangerous grin spread across Geo’s face, and John started to snicker, “is not being able to help that I’m more beautiful than you.”

The betrayal, as painful and perfidious as it was, was more than poor Paul could handle.

_“FUCK YOU.”_

“It _does_ look painful, y’know,” Ringo remarked later that night, as George thoroughly tended to his black eye. “Was it worth it?”

George glanced at the pissed off Paul puffing on a ciggie on the other side of the small suite. Their eyes met and George saw him scrutinize his form, before wrinkling his nose with reddened cheeks and glowering at a gleeful-looking Lennon.

He grinned. _“Absolutely,_ son.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I sincerely hope you enjoyed this ridiculous little fic that I had loads of fun writing! Again, happy birthday to our favourite Gemini (apart from me, of course), Sir Paul.  
> Don't be afraid to leave a comment/review, and please do leave kudos! They're part of my diet.  
> Here's my [tumblr](https://blobfishmiffy.tumblr.com/), feel free to chat with me there! Love a good convo.  
> Anyway, much love on this International Holiday. A legend was born 78 years ago! Huzzah!!!  
> xxx


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